Sometime Around Midnight
by LadiSmilePretty
Summary: One shot: Dean is in a bar when he thinks he sees someone from his past.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing other than the story line. **

**Author's note: Just a one shot that came to me doing laundry, based on the song of the same title 'Sometime Around Midnight' by the Airborne Toxic Event. **

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It had only been a month since Carthage when Dean found himself at some hole in the wall bar talking to a young red head who wouldn't remind him of her. The girl's fiery red hair was cut short and pin straight. She wore a pink sequined top that sent a shimmer of light across her face every time she moved, her leather mini skirt rode dangerously low on her hips must have been painted onto her thighs.

The girl, Amy, Dean had scrounged through his memory for her name, was blathering on about some ex-boyfriend that had done her wrong in some way, when he saw a flash of blonde hair through the crowd. "But you're not like that." Amy said twirling a strand of her short hair around her index finger, pulled Dean from his thoughts.

"What did you say?" He said turning his attention back to her, "It's really loud in here," He smiled apologetically.

Amy smiled back, "I was just saying that I can already tell you're not like him." She repeated herself.

Dean smirked at her, a flirty quip ready on the tip of his tongue when the blond caught his attention again. It was as if the shitty band's spot light aimed for her. Dean stole a quick glance at the stage to make sure he was just imagining things. He obviously was, as the lead singer wailed about something about forgetting yourself for awhile. The melancholy tune pulling Dean to look back over Amy's shoulder to see the crowd part to reveal the woman who had been haunting his dreams.

Joanna Beth Harvelle stood there in the middle of the crowd all in white, seeming to glow. No one noticed her, no one saw his own personal angel staring holes into him. Dean's heart began to beat out of his chest, whether because he was seeing ghosts or the alcohol finally making it's way to his head, he couldn't tell the difference. He rubbed his eyes barely aware of the fact that Amy was still chatting away.

She was just standing there watching him as he gripped his beer bottle for dear life as if the world were to crash down on him then, that would be his saving grace. He was loosing it. He was sure of it now. She was so readily on his mind that he was hallucinating her there with him. Like she should be. Instead of Amy.

He was staring in earnest now, so much he could almost smell her perfume. The mixture of whiskey and vanilla that was ingrained in him now, the scents forever stained with her blood. He could almost hear her voice float to his ears asking him how he was through the music throbbing against the walls. 'How do you think?' He wanted to shout at her, 'I let you die.' The guilt of that moment, of his actions, would never be forgiven, least of all by him.

He watched her in silence as she floated to the door, taking one last fleeting look at him exiting as another patron is just arriving. The second she's gone, Dean is on his feet.

"What is it?" Amy's eyes fill with concern for the man she barely knew. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He doesn't even look at her as he fumbles with the money he pulls out of his pocket. Not taking his eyes off the door way to check if it's the right amount. He bolts for the door, praying to anyone that will listen to just let him see her again.

He pushes his way past the crowd of drunks as he makes his way out into the Chicago cold. His breath comes out in puffs of fog as he looks down both ends of the street, looking for any sign of her. He would sign his soul over right then and there just to see her face one more time, to hear her voice, feel her skin against his, anything, if only for a minute.

The street lights guide him to the left. No rhyme or reason, just his gut telling him to do so, he hoped against everything that he knew that it was her leading him.

He must have looked crazed, his eyes wide, searching every alleyway, ever car, for a sign anything. If he was more sober he might care that everyone was staring at him, but he could care less about what he looks like right now. He just has to see her.

He wouldn't care if the wold ended tomorrow, as long as he saw her, hold her face in his hands, the memory of her lips against his still burning.

The trail of street lights lead him back to the Impala, shining under a spot light of her own. Dean sighed pulling his keys out of his coat pocket, opening the driver side door. He knew deep down, that if he did see her, if it was real, she would break him in two.


End file.
